Chapter XXV: Part I (5)

_The Book of Ballads_, edited by Bon Gaultier (William Blackwood and Sons, Edinburgh), contains a poem by the late Professor W. E. Aytoun, entitled _The Lay of Mr. Colt_. The story it recounts is repulsive, Colt, being condemned to death for murder, was lying in prison in New York, but on the morning of the execution he committed suicide under peculiar circumstances. The poem itself is not a parody, but it concludes with the following imitation of the closing lines of _Horatius_:――

And when the lamp is lighted
In the long November days,
And lads and lasses mingle
At the shucking of the maize;
When pies of smoking pumpkin
Upon the table stand,
And bowls of black molasses
Go round from hand to hand;
When slap jacks, maple sugared,
Are hissing in the pan,
And cider with a dash of gin,
Foams in the social can;
When the goodman wets his whistle,
And the goodwife scolds the child,
And the girls exclaim convulsively,
“Have done, or I’ll be riled!”
When the loafer sitting next them
Attempts a sly caress,
And whispers, “Oh! you ’possum,
You’ve fixed my heart I guess!”
With laughter and with weeping,
Then shall they tell the tale,
How Colt his foeman quartered,
And died within the jail.

――――

THE GREAT DURBAR.

Jan Larrens[104] of Calcutta,
Chief Knight of India’s Star,
Has sworn by all the Hindoo gods
He’ll hold a Grand Durbar.
By Gunga’s stream he swore it
And named at once the day,
Then bade his Aides-de-camp go forth,
East, and west, and south, and north,
To summon the array.

(_The description of the Durbar which here follows, occupies about five hundred lines, many of which are scarcely intelligible to those who have not resided in India._)

And through the heat of summer,
Warm night and sultry day,
While Brahmins teach the girls to love
And Hindu youths to pray;
When, through the Rajah’s palace,
Or in the poor man’s hut,
Against the winds of winter
The doors are closely shut;
When in his close Zenana
The Indian swell reclines,
And smokes the bubbling hookah
And quaffs forbidden wines;
And when in dufter-khanah
Lall-puggree counts the gains
He made from swarthy chieftains
On Agra’s sun-burnt plains;
When the ryot drives the bullock,
And twists his broken tail;
When Hindo maidens seek their loves,
And old crones fiercely rail;
When the woman cooks the curry,
And piles it on the rice,
And the baboo and the labourer
Alike count up their pice,
In every home in Agra,
In many a place afar,
They’ll tell the tale of that day when
Jan Larrens held Durbar.

From _Lyrics and Lays_. By Pips. Calcutta, Wyman 1867.

――――

BEFORE THE COMITIA.
(_The Two Aruspices._)

In Rome, ere the Comitia
To business could be set,
The Augurs and Arùspices
In solemn conclave met;
The peckings, pipings, hoppings
Of the sacred fowls to try,
And in the victim’s entrails
For signs of fate to pry.

* * * * *

There’s Dizzius Aruspex
Wears a sardonic grin,
Though sterner Merrypebblius
Such laughter holds a sin;
But, for all he looks so solemn,
No less he twigs the fun,
E’en while his brow on Dizzius
Appears to frown “Ha’ done!”

“Leaders should not be laughers,”
(He holds) “whate’er their case;
If in ’tis too triumphant;
If out, ’tis not in place.
Or, if a laugh be needful”――
Which he does not believe――
“The Arùspice’s laugh should never
Extend beyond his sleeve.”

(_Thirteen verses omitted._)

_Punch._ February 8, 1873.

――――
THE DAUNTLESS THREE.

This is the title of a parody, issued in pamphlet form by Messrs. J. Hall and Son, Cambridge. Second edition 1874, price sixpence, and said to be by A. de L. H. It would certainly be of literary interest to know the author’s name of this humorous, and scholarly parody of Macaulay’s _Horatius_, as the same initials are prefixed to another parody, of a similar character, entitled “_The Battle of Lake Mort_,” which will be more fully described when dealing with parodies of Macaulay’s “_Battle of the Lake Regillus_.”

“_The Dauntless Three_,” consists of forty two verses, with a number of burlesque latin notes. The subject of the parody is the well worn theme of the “Town and Gown” rows.

The Citizens of Cambridge
By Jonas Webb they swore,
That the gownsmen for the future
Should hold their own no more.
By Jonas Webb they swore it,
And named Guy Fawkes his day,
And to their quarters all sent forth,
East and West and South and North,
To summon their array.

* * * * *

I wis ’midst all the Leaders
There was no heart so bold,
But sore it ached, and fast it beat,
When that ill news was told.
Forthwith up rose the Captain,
Up rose the Leaders all,
In haste they tore away their gowns,
And shied them at the wall.

They held a Council standing
Beside the Royal Gate,
No time was there, ye well may guess,
For musing or debate,
Outspake the Leader roundly,
Picked men must straight go down.
For if Rose Crescent once is lost,
What hope to save the Gown?

* * * * *

Then out spoke Brown the brave one――
The Captain of the eight――
“To every man this fight will bring
A struggle soon or late.
And how can a man fight better,
Then facing fearful odds,
For the honour of his College,
And his oft invoked gods.[105]

“To the Crescent, then, Sir Leader,
With all the speed ye may;
I and two more to help me
Will hold the foe in play.
In that strait path a hundred
May well be stopped by three.
Now who will stand on either hand,
And keep the lane with me?”

Then out spake brave Mackenzie,
A Scotchman proud was he,
“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the lane with thee.”
And out spake strong O’Grady,
Hibernian blood had he――
“I will abide at thy left side,
And keep the lane with thee.”

* * * * *

And so they won Rose Crescent,
And beat the Townsmen back――
But they owed it to the Valiant THREE
Who bore the first attack――
That DAUNTLESS THREE who stood there,
And kept in check the foes,
And who so bravely held their post,
In the Crescent of the Rose.

And in the nights of winter
When the cold north winds blow――
And the “hallooing” of the cads
Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the well-built college
Roars loud the tempest’s din,
And the black gems from collieries
Roar louder yet within;

When the choicest cup is ready,
And the largest lamp is lit,
When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
And the edibles are fit,
When all the men in circle
Around the fireplace close,
When some are smoking placidly
And some on sofas doze;

When the host prepares the potables,
And makes all snug his room,
And the cheers of all his comrades
Far in the court-yard boom――
With shouting and with laughter――
Still is the story told
How well those three men kept the path,
In the brave days of old.

In 1875, Messrs. Metcalfe of Cambridge, published another, “Town and Gown” parody, entitled “_Thanatos_: A Poem by the ghost of Macaulay.” This was written by Mr. Kerr, a nephew of Lord Tennyson.

FIFTH OF NOVEMBER.

Up rose the silver moonlight
Over the rustling trees,
And fast the hum of angry men
Was wafted on the breeze.

From many a dirty pot-house,
And hole without a name,
From many a low and filthy haunt
The mob of blackguards came;
From populous St. Aldates,
Swarming with noisy brats;
St. Aldates on whose house tops we
Have often heard with ecstasy
The sweet nocturnal melody
Of melancholy cats.

_Here follows a long and detailed description of a “Town and Gown” row; the sudden appearance of the “Proctor,” with the policemen, the hasty flight of the undergraduates, and their safe arrival home._

And now no living thing is seen
In the deserted streets,
Save Oxford’s useless bobbies,
Who perambulate the High,
From Carfax to where Magdalen tower
Stands tall and grim at midnight hour
Against the moonlit sky.

And oft on winter evenings,
In the cold Christmas vac.,
When home from school and college
The youngsters have come back,
Around the blazing fireside,
Still is the story told,
How well the gownsmen thrashed the town
In the good days of old.

From _Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon. Originally published by Chapman and Hall, London, 1874, in a small quarto form, but since re-issued in a cheaper form by Thomas Shrimpton and Son, Oxford.

――――

CH. CH. BESIEGED!

An anonymous parody of _Horatius_, published in 1877 in pamphlet form (price sixpence), by T. Shrimpton and Son, Oxford. It is a short poem describing a practical joke very similar to that known as the “Berners Street Hoax,” perpetrated by Theodore Hook, in 1809.

This consisted in writing to a large number of tradespeople and others, asking them to call, on various pretexts, at a certain house, at a fixed hour. In Theodore Hook’s case the hoax was pure mischief without any malicious intent; but in _Christ Church Besieged_, the joke is described as having been planned to annoy a certain Mr. M――――s.

A certain set of Christ Church,
One common oath they swore,
That the great M――――s of Christ Church
Should suffer yet once more,
And to the Oxford tradesmen
They named a trysting day
And made the messenger go forth
East and West and South and North,
To summon the array.

* * * * *

But Mr. M――――s’s brow was sad,
He said their speech was low
And if they did not shut it up,
He’d to the censor go.
“These vans that come upon us,
These tradesmen here that wait,
I have not ordered,――Porter!
I wish you’d keep the gate.”

* * * * *

Still in the nights of winter
When the moon shines clear and bright
And o’er the quad rise loud and wild
The voices of the night.
When the “36” is opened
And the gleaming lamp is lit,
And all around the embers
A jovial party sit;
When fresh and senior circle
Around the firebrands bright,
And the redolent virginian weed
Gives mingled cloud and light;
When the connoisseur, with practised eye,
Rejoicing at the sight,
Holds up his glass of ruddy port
Athwart the streaming light,
With screams and tears of laughter
Still is the story told
Of how the porter kept the gate
In the brave days of old.

――――

THE LAY OF THE LAST COMMEMORATION DINNER.
(_By a Disappointed Guest._)

The Seniors of Trinity
By Newton’s bones they swore,
That the proud Undergraduate
Should share the feast no more;
By Newton’s bones they swore it,
And named their Feasting day,
And sent no invitations round
To hungry Scholars humblier gowned,
Or prizemen in the May.

* * * * *

(_In revenge for this slight the Undergraduates introduce gunpowder below the room in which the Dons hold their banquet; at a given signal, one Tomkins applies a match, and the whole party is blown up._)

A hand they found of Tomkins,
Some sixteen miles away,
And in its cold clenched fingers
A box――“Bryant and May”;
And to this hour his praises
Are oft rehearsed in song,
As one who perished at his post,
And cheerfully gave up the ghost
To wipe away a wrong.

He standeth in the cloisters,
Beneath a roof of thatch,
Tomkins, the fiery freshman,
In act to strike a match;
And underneath is carven,
In letters plain to read,
A circumstantial narrative
Of his devoted deed.

ANONYMOUS.

Published by W. P. Spalding, Sidney Street, Cambridge. 1880.

――――

OBSTRUCTION UTILISED.

King Mensa of Coomassie
By Mumbo Jumbo swore
His family umbrella
Should be detained no more;
By Jumbo did he swear it,
And named a trysting day,
And bade his messengers run forth,
South and west, and east and north,
To gather his array.

East and west, and south and north,
The messengers run fast;
And the fetish in each village
Has heard the conch-shell’s blast:
Shame on the false Ashantee
Who will not join the host,
When Mensa of Coomassie
Is marching on Cape Coast!

* * * * *

But Gladstone’s brow was sad,
And Gladstone’s speech was trite:
“The Land League take King Mensa!
We do not want to fight.”
He looked upon the telegram
They gave him, with a frown:
“I fear ’t will send my Budget up,
And I want to keep it down.”

Then spake Coercion Forster,
“O Gladstone, you’re a goose!
For everything upon this earth
One, some day, finds a use.
Let’s send Parnell against him,
With his Home Rule array!
I think he’ll be the very man
To obstruct King Mensa’s way!”

“Good Forster!” answered Gladstone,
“What thou sayest is very well.”
So forth against King Mensa
They sent the great Parnell;
For England in her battles
Grudged not a Home Rule life,
To give the English Parliament,
And Ireland, rest from strife.

* * * * *

I wis in all Ashanteeland
There was no heart so bold,
But sore it ached, and fast it beat,
When that ill news was told.
Down from his throne fell Mensa,
Down fell his council all,
Headlong they rolled upon the floor,
And loudly ’gan to squall.

They held a council, rolling
Upon the mud-hut floor;
No hope there was, you well may guess,
Of victory in such war.
Alas! they had no Speaker
To face such dire attack.
King Mensa cried, “We’re diddled!”
And his council cried, “Alack!”
So they sued for peace right humbly,
And said they’d been in fun,
And sent five more umbrellas
To be kept at Kensington!

_Judy._ March 16, 1881.

――――

HOW HORATIUS KEPT THE BRIDGE.

Such is the title of a burlesque account of the events described in Macaulay’s poem, which appeared in “The Blue” a small magazine conducted by the scholars of Christ’s Hospital, (the Blue-coat school) London. It was afterwards reprinted in _Gleanings from “The Blue,”_ S. Austin and Sons, Hertford. 1881.

The burlesque is in prose, but a few parody verses are given in it to illustrate the narrative:

“When the face of Sextus
Was seen among the foes,
No blackguard in the city
But raised his Roman nose:
No lady on the housetops
But snarl’d at him and spat,
No child but shriek’d out curses――
(Immoral little brat!)”

* * * * *

“Then out spake Spurius Lartius,
A noble swell was he:
‘Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And take a chop with thee!’
And out spake strong Herminius,
Heaver of coals was _he_:
‘I too will stay; and make them pay
The wonted half pennie!’”

* * * * *

_Horatius thus addresses the river_:――

“Oh, Tiber, mister Tiber――
If thus I may address you――
If to yon shore you’ll bear me o’er,
All I can say is――Bless you!”

* * * * *

When boys and girls are romping,
And the elders drain the flagon,
While the children burn their fingers

At glorious snap-dragon;
Around the Christmas fire
Still is the story told――
How well Horatius kept the bridge,
In the brave days of old.

――――

A LAY OF MODERN HAMMERSMITH.

The great Sir James[106] of Charing Cross
By the whole Board he swore
That carriage folk for Richmond
Should risk their lives no more,
By the whole Board he swore it,
And named a closing day,
And bade his engineers ride forth
To stop all traffic with the North,
And block the right of way.

“To stop all traffic with the North,”
The news it flies full fast,
And terrace, lodge and villa,
Are staggered at the blast.
Shame on the slave of Mortlake
Content for hours to roam,
Because Sir James of Charing Cross,
By Putney sends him home.

(_Five verses omitted._)

Time was, when after dining
Beyond proud Notting’s ridge,
A halfpenny would bring him
Across the classic bridge:
For Hammersmith and Mortlake,
Ere both of them were sold,
Were like suburban brothers
In the brave days of old.

But meanwhile axe and lever
Have ruthlessly been plied,
And soon the ancient structure
Will have a new inside.
But louder grows the thunder
About the route to town,――
And p’raps they’ll get a wooden bridge
A little lower down.

So in some night next Winter,
When the cold Easters blow,
And the omnibus comes slipping
Amid the frozen snow;
When round the lonely villa
The fog wets to the skin,
And the cheap coals of Wallsend
Chokes everyone within.

When the latest bill is opened,
And the dimmest gas is lit,
And the curtains are drawn closer,
O’er the windows that won’t fit;
When the leaden pipe is bursting
With the water it provides;
When the girls are reading novels,
And the boys are making slides;

When the goodman scans his cheque book,
With a fitting Christmas gloom;
And the goodwife’s chatter sharply
Goes snapping round the room;
With threats and imprecations,
The tale may still be told
How great Sir James blocked up the bridge
That served quite well of old.

_Punch._ September 30, 1882.

――――

HOW GLADSTONE WON THE ELECTION.

I.

Our Queen’s Most Gracious Majesty,
By the rich gems she wore,
Declared “Her faithful Commons”
Should waste their time no more.
With her own tongue she said it,
And would not brook delay,
But bade her officers ride forth,
East, and west, and south, and north,
To scatter the array.

II.

East and west, and south and north,
The officers went fast,
And cottage, town, and county
Have heard the trumpet blast;
Shame on th’ enfranchised Briton
Who does not find his voice,
When country, Queen, and duty,
Demand to know his choice.

III.

For though her “faithful Commons,”
The Queen must needs dissolve,
The gov’ning of the Empire
Requires her quick resolve,
To call another Parliament
Of loyal men and true,
Who shall devise laws good and wise,
And change old things to new.

* * * * *

VII.

And now, most of the boroughs
Have sent their tale of men,
The Tories clear the hundred,
And claim the victory then.
In London’s mighty city,
A Liberal scarce dare speak;
A proud man was Lord Salisbury
As ended the first week.

VIII.

But ’mong the Liberal party
Was anger and dismay,
As some of their oldest strongholds
Yielded to Tory sway.
From all parts of the country
The messages came in,
Suggesting ideas, expressing fears,
Hoping ’gainst hope, to win.

XIV.

Then out spake William Gladstone,
A Grand Old Man was he,
“To every one upon this earth,
Must come obscurity;
And how can man yield better,
Than falling in a fight,
Where the true, straightforward Liberal,
Meets Tory and Parnellite?

XV.

“Keep up your pluck, good comrades,
And hark to what I say;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe at bay.
In Scotland’s beauteous capital
I’ll rally all the clans;
Now who will stand on either hand,
And aid me in my plans?”

XVI.

Then out spake good Lord Hartington,
A comrade tried was he,
“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And fight this fight with thee.”
And out spake William Forster,
Of Irish fame was he,
“I will abide by thy left side,
Though weak and ill I be.”

XVII.

“Brave leaders,” quoth the Liberals,
“As speak ye, so let it be.”
And straight against the great array
Forth went the valiant three.
For Liberals, in this conflict
Left not a chance untried,
To crush the combined forces
Which strangely were allied.

XVIII.

For none were for a Party,
But all were for the State;
And the great men helped the poor,
And the poor men loved the great.
The lands they’d fairly portion,
In a way which they knew how,
And every man they’d have possess,
“Three acres and a cow.”

XXX.

To Derbyshire, Lord Hartington,
Travelled to help a friend;
While Forster’s serious illness
Threatened his life to end.
But when they saw friend Gladstone
Commence renewed attack
On a Tory Welchman’s stronghold
They wished to hurry back.

XXXIII.

“O voters, county voters,”
The old man’s heard to say,
“A Liberal’s life and policy
Do ye endorse to day.”
So he spake, and, speaking, opened
His umbrella with his right,
And, with his left hand, seized his axe
And plunged into the fight.

XXXIV.

But fiercely raged the conflict,
Fed by each Party’s gain,
And fast his strength was failing,
And heavy grew the strain;
His voice grew weak and weaker,
As speeches multiplied,
And oft they thought him done for,
But he again revived.

XXXVI.

And now the strife is over,
In Flintshire as elsewhere,
The Liberal cause has conquered,
With lots of strength to spare.
Round Gladstone throng the leaders
From all parts of the land,
And each would be the foremost
To grasp his manly hand.

XXXIX.

And in the nights of winter
When the stars withhold their smiles,
And the sweet voices of the cats
Are heard upon the tiles;
When round suburban villas
Roars the loud tempests’ din,
And draughts and smoky chimneys
Cause loud complaints within――

XL.

When the oldest bottle’s opened,
And the chandelier is lit,
When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
And the good wife sits to knit;
When young and old in circle
Around the fireside close,
When the boys go in for courting,
And the girls caress their beaus;

XLI.

When the Stanley club completeth
Its year of jubilee,
And grey-haired members take with pride
A grandchild on each knee;
With ever growing interest
The story will survive,
How William Gladstone gained the day
In eighteen eighty-five.

F. W. S.

(_Twenty-four verses omitted._)

From _The Hampstead and Highgate Express_. December 26, 1885.

――――

GLADSTONIUS.
(_Extract from a Classic Poem._)

But with a crash like thunder,
Fell many a loosened “plank,”
And, with a dam,[107] the Grand Old Man,
Made for the County Bank.

* * * * *

“O Voter, Rural Voter,
To whom we Liberals pray,
A Liberal’s life and policy
Take thou in charge this day!”
So he spake, and speaking, fastened
The well-worn mackintosh,
And, with Welsh flannel on his back,
Plunged Hodgewards in the slosh.

* * * * *

And when above the turmuts
They see his drooping gills;
From the Reform came loud applause,
And the _Times’_ Leader-writers pause
To trim their well-worn quills.

* * * * *

But his limbs were borne up bravely
By the brave heart within,
And the Good Rural Voter
Bore bravely up his chin.
And now he feels the bottom,
Now on dry earth he stands,
Now round him throng the Lib’rals;
To press his muddy hands.

* * * * *

They gave him an umbrella-stand
In record of the fight,
And twelve stout stand-up collars
To wear from morn till night.
They gave him gay gardenias
For buttonholes, I vow,
And CHAMBERLAINUS promised him
“Three Acres and a Cow!”

_Punch._ December 12, 1885.

――――

Now Joseph C. of Birmingham
By his Three Points he swore,
The worthy folk of England
Should suffer wrong no more.

By his Three Points he swore it,
And eager for the fray,
He bade his messengers ride forth
East and West, and South and North,
To summon his array.

This is the first verse of a political parody which is contained in “_Joseph and his Brethren_,” by W. A. S. P., a sixpenny pamphlet published in 1885, by Foulger and Co., London. The advanced Radical opinions then held by Mr. Joseph Chamberlain were strongly advocated in the poems and parodies in this pamphlet.

――――

A LAY OF MODERN LONDON.
_By the Shade of Lord Macaulay._

An anonymous parody of twenty verses, printed apparently about 1880, but having no printer’s name, place, or date, commenced thus:

Jon Runcius of Hacne
By the nine gods he swore
That the ninth seat at Stepne
Should vacant be no more.
By the nine gods he swore it,
And he marked the Meeting Day,
And made his circulars go forth,
East and West, and South and North,
To summon his array.

East and West, and South and North,
The circulars go round,
And every Proprietor,
A proxy-form hath found.
Shame on the weak Shareholder,
Who chafes at being bored,
When Runcius of Hacne
Is going for the Board!

_The Last Verse._

When the goodman buys “Commercial,”
When we near the half-year’s end,
When the goodwife counts her holding,
And scents her dividend,
With zest, tut no ill-will or spite,
Still be the story told,
How well _Bradshauvus_ kept the Board,
And somebody was sold!

――――

VOLUMNIA.

Just at the ides of April
They were in marriage tied,
The noblest Roman of them all
Unto the fairest bride;
Volumnia her _nomen_ was,
And Lartius was her “spoon;”
The twain went to Tarentum,
To pass the honeymoon.

Yet, when the ides of August
Had swiftly glided by,
For a new Autumnal bonnet
The bride began to cry
He said: “My dear Volumnia
I cannot give you that.”
Yet still her cry was: “Lartius,
I want a new style hat!”

He was a speculator
In stocks of every sort;
But down, far down had fallen,
The stocks which Lartius bought,
Had fallen down until his purse
Was as a pancake flat.
Yet still her cry was: “Lartius,
I want a novel hat!”

“Volumnia,” said Lartius,
“Now, really you must cease――
I cannot give you what you ask,
So let me have some peace;
I’m busted, used up, done for,
And all that sort of thing,
If bonnets cost a sesterce
I could not buy a string.”

Yet still she kept on crying
Aloud for a new hat.
He had it with his muffins,
When he at breakfast sat;
He had it with his roasted joint,
When dinner was served hot;
And still it came at supper
With toast and the tea-pot.

Then Lartius donned his toga,
And by the Gods he swore
That such an endless nagging
He would endure no more.
“I’ll to the Lictor,” quoth he,
“And tell my tale straightway.
I’ll tell to Consul and Tribune
How she does nag and importune
And see what they will say.”

“Wants a new hat!” quoth Consul
And Lictor and Tribune.
“That must be stopped, or females,
Will rule our country soon,
It’s written in the Tables,
And all the laws of Rome,
That when a woman’s hat is old
She ought to stay at home.

“And if she nags her husband
Just when he’s dreadful short,
And howls for a new bonnet,
Why that’s in law a tort:
And for all torts the laws provide
A punishment complete:
For such a heinous crime as hers
That she should die is meet.”

The Romans stood no nonsense
In those good days of old.
They quickly crushed a woman
Whene’er she grew too bold.
They fired such without ado
Off the Tarpeian height;
And that happed to Volumnia,
And served that female right.

ANONYMOUS.

THE BATTLE OF THE LAKE REGILLUS.
_A Lay sung at the Feast of Castor and Pollux._

Ho, trumpets, sound a war note!
Ho, lictors, clear the way!
The Knights will ride, in all their pride,
Along the streets to day.
To-day the doors and windows
Are hung with garlands all,
From Castor in the Forum,
To Mars without the wall.
Each Knight is robed in purple,
With olive each is crowned;
A gallant war-horse under each
Paws haughtily the ground.
While flows the Yellow River,
While stands the Sacred Hill,
The proud Ides of Quintilis
Shall have such honour still.
Gay are the Martian Kalends;
December’s Nones are gay:
But the proud Ides, when the squadron rides,
Shall be Rome’s whitest day.

Unto the Great Twin Brethren
We keep this solemn feast.
Swift, swift, the Great Twin Brethren
Came spurring from the East.
To where, by Lake Regillus,
Under the Porcian height,
All in the lands of Tusculum,
Was fought the glorious fight.

* * * * *

And Sergius the High Pontiff
Alone found voice to speak:
“The gods who live for ever
Have fought for Rome to day!
These be the Great Twin Brethren
To whom the Dorians pray.
Here, hard by Vesta’s temple,
Build we a stately dome
Unto the Great Twin Brethren
Who fought so well for Rome.
And when the months returning
Bring back this day of fight,
The proud Ides of Quintilis
Marked evermore with white.
Unto the Great Twin Brethren
Let all the people throng,
With chaplets and with offerings,
With music and with song;
And let the doors and windows
Be hung with garlands all,
And let the Knights be summoned
To Mars without the wall:
Thence let them ride in purple
With joyous trumpet sound,
Each mounted on his war-horse,
And each with olive crowned;
And pass in solemn order
Before the sacred dome,
Where dwell the Great Twin Brethren
Who fought so well for Rome!”

T. B. MACAULAY.

THE CHISWICK FLOWER FETE.
For 1846.

Ho! members take your tickets,――
Ho! maidens, choose your shawls!
The son looks out his waistcoats,
The sire selects his smalls.
To-day is Flora’s triumph,
To-day great sights you view,
So, cabmen, drive your cattle,
And drive your bargains too.

Green are the squares of London,
And some few lanes are green,
And trees of city foliage
Shade walks of stone between,
And green are certain gala days,
With places known to fame――
The inner circle of the park
That bears the Regent’s name.

And green are those great glasses
That hold Germania’s wine,
That they tell you suit the vintage
Of the clear Moselle and Rhine:
And green are those young freshmen,
Who, to earn a gentle name,
Take credit of a tailor,
Or give it to a dame.

But greener far than any
Is Chiswick’s shaven sward,
And gayer than all gala-days
Are the groups that swarm abroad.
See how they muster onwards,――
The car, the cab, the team;
My dearest friends in carriages,
My dearer self by steam.

Bright is the first fresh show of Spring,
When cucumbers are rare;
And bright the show of hot July,
When Autumn’s fruits are there:
Autumn that’s forced beforehand,
As children oversage,
When all forestalls its season,
Like minds before their age.

But the brightest day among them,
The grandest show of three,
Is that which brings the roses,
And draws down you and me.
So ’mid the great Triumvirs
Did greater Caesar sway;
So ’mid the days of Epsom
Stands out the Derby day.

(_Ten verses omitted._)

THE TRAVELLING BACHELOR.

This imitation of Lord Macaulay first appeared in Bentley’s Miscellany, and was afterwards included in _The Bentley Ballads_ (R. Bentley, London. 1869.)

――――

THE BATTLE OF THE VESTRIES.

Ho, guardians! sound the cornet,
Ho, beadle! clear the way,
The parish pride to-day hath hied
To see the mud-pumps play.
The legates of the Vestries
Have gained the river boat.
The legates of the Vestries
Are all in state afloat.
The legates of the Vestries
Defying aqueous ills,
Have reached the land by Stratford’s strand,
Where stand the Abbey Mills.

Fair are the bowers of Stratford,
Its coppices and clumps,
And fair the Pumping Station
Which Tamesian sewage pumps,
And fairer yet by long chalks
That cold collation is,
Which Vestrymen have brought in train,
Of ham and beef and fowl amain,
And ale and stout and cheap champagne:
The Vestries term it “fiz.”

They saw the Abbey Mill Pumps
Work grandly up and down,
Which save the mud and garbage
Infecting London town;
And when they had inspected,
With noses satisfied,
Down sat they to a banquet sprent
O’er a white table in the tent
Pitched over Stratford side.
But ere they sat to dine there
On fowl and beef and tongue,
They, on the steamboat fore and aft,
The wine and bitter beer had quaffed,
Till, in the language of their craft,
Each Vestryman was “sprung.”

Now dinner barely over,
With more drink doled to each,
Higgins the noble shopkeeper,
Arose to make a speech――
Higgins who all the noblemen
Of Clerkenwell supplies;
And near him sat brave Podger, who
The letter H defies,
But Higgins when in liquor
Of speech is somewhat thick,
Yet dealeth he in chaff which is
Extremely apt to stick.
At Higgins’ muddled periods
Stout Podger hurled a sneer,
And Higgins answered with an oath
Meet for a Vestry’s ear.

Now by the crest of Mary,
Mary surnamed Le Bone,
The ire of Podger swiftly rose
To hear the scoffer’s tone.
An empty bottle wielding
He aimed it at his crown,
And with unerring fleetness
Tumbled his foeman down.
Then flamed the wrath of Vestries,
And blows and curses sped,
And fowl-bones flew, and H’s dropped,
But still undaunted Podger whopped,
With champagne bottles that had popped,
Prone Higgins’s bare head.

The battle now grew general;
Boggle at Hunks let fly!
Hunks aimed a blow at Boggle
That caught him in the eye;
While Grigg and Globb and Blenkinsop
Around dealt broken pates;
Still Podger’s stick dealt many a blow,
Till mastered by the numerous foe
That hurled him far and laid him low
Among the knives and plates.

The Ilford beaks look sternly
Upon a Guardian’s fault;
The Ilford beaks fined Podger
Five pounds for each assault,
Still let us sing in triumph
With all a minstrel’s powers,
How Vestrymen behave themselves
In the brave days of ours.

_The Tomahawk._ September 19, 1868.

――――

A LAY OF ANCIENT ROME.
_New-laid in Modern London._

Ho, Bugler, give a tootle!
Ho, Peeler, keep the way;
For the Mayor will ride in all his pride
To Temple Bar to-day:
To-day the doors and windows
Are hung with banners all,
From Buckingham’s famed Palace,
To the Churchyard of St. Paul.

And forth ride Mayor and Sheriffs,
All duly chained and gowned;
A well-trained charger under each,
Treads gingerly the ground.
While stands the old Cathedral,
And, till the Law Courts rise,
So great a sight shall not delight
Again our wondering eyes.
Sweet is the First of April――
November’s Ninth is gay;
But they may not compare a jot
With this Thanksgiving Day.

Fast from the Hill of Ludgate,
Where Benson’s watches are,
The Lord Mayor and the Sheriffs
Rode on to Temple Bar.
On the right hand trotted Truscott,
Of Dowgate Ward the pride;
And on the left spurred Bennett,
The Bennett of Cheapside.

I wis in all the City
There was no man so cold,
But loud he roared, and long he cheered,
The pageant to behold.
The Fathers of the City
They sat their horses well,
Though by their side did footmen stride
To catch them if they fell.

And now ’mid cheers and laughter,
They halt at Temple Bar,
And glad are they, so I should say,
To find that there they are.
And lo, the Queen arriving,
The City’s keys has ta’en:――
But look you how, with gracious bow,
She gives them back again.

And now the Mayor and Sheriffs
Remount at Temple Bar,
And down the street of ancient Fleet
Precede the Royal Car.

And now the ascent of Ludgate
’Mid shouting is begun:
They pass the Cheese of Hudson,
They pass the Books of Dunn,
And where McCarthy’s groves of Hats
A pleasant shadow cast,
They draw the rein, for it is plain
They’re at St. Paul’s at last.

(_Five verses omitted._)

_Fun._ March 2, 1872.

――――

THE FOOTBALL MATCH

_Between the Whartonites and Beaconites, which ended in the defeat of the latter. Played November_ 21_st, on the school ground._

(_A Parody on passages from the Battle of Lake Regillus._)

Ho! Captains sound the war note;
Præposters, clear the way;
The Whartonites and Beaconites
Will soon begin to play.
See, many a tree and paling
Is hung with caps and coats,
From Mug’s shed to the Hundred
The fence in finery gloats.
Each youth is striped with colours,
With light blue each is crowned,
Right gallantly and proudly each
Advances up the ground.
The Captain,[108] brave Valerius,
Is bringing up the ball,
A shout of schoolboy merriment
And mirth proceeds from all.

The half-backs were stout Aulus
Of herculean size
And Brutus strapped and tied and wrapped
In wondrous football guise
The full back was Horatius
Who near the goal posts stood
In shorts and stockings gay, arrayed
Capped with a Brewer’s hood.

See, now the ball is started;
See now they run apace;
How pluckily the little chaps
Those Beacon giants face!
And in the gutters thickest
Were given hacks and blows
And from the gutters loudest
The cry of “Play up” rose,
And louder still and louder
Rose from the muddy field
The shouts and yells of Captains both
“Shove up and do not yield.”
The panting forwards dashing
Like madmen, o’er the plain,
Mid joyous shouts of triumph
And screeching yells of pain,
For underneath a gutter
Flaccus of Sevenoaks lay:
Better had he been learning
Greek grammar all that day.
Mamilias saw him struggling
And tossed his blue black crest
And toward the brave Valerius
Through the thick battle pressed.

Valerius smote Mamilias
So fiercely on the head
That the great Lord of Sevenoaks
Rolled over well nigh dead.
Mamilias smote Lars Porsena
With a good aim and true
Just where the neck and shoulder join
And made him black and blue,
Here brave Amutius Elva
Fell swooning to the ground,
And a thick wall of players
Encompassed him around.

Sempronius Atratinus
Would fain have cleared a space
But deaf’ning yells and shrieks and shouts
Were levelled at his face.
While some stood round and shouted
“Brave Sextus don’t give in,”
As many others roared as loud
“By Jove, my man will win.”
Then out spake good Valerius,
The Captain of the team,
“To all that stand upon this field
“This must rare plucky seem,
“But how can a man die better
“(If he’s to die at all)
“Than battered in and bashed and squashed
“And flattened in a maul?”
Sempronius Atratinus
And Decius Mus were hoarse
With yelling “Boys get off the ball
“It’s Sextus’s of course.”
And oh! the thundering clamour
When Sextus faintly rose,
Black in the face and panting fast
Must bring this to a close.

Gay are the Cricket Kalends,
The Racing Nones are gay,
But the Football Ides, of all the pride,
Shall be the whitest day,
While flows our Medway river,
While stands our One Tree Hill,
The Ides of proud November
Shall have such honour still.

_The Tonbridgian._ December, 1878.

――――

A PROPHECY OF CAPERS.
(_A Lay of an Ancient Roamer._)

Ho! grooms, fling forth the sawdust
Ho! shed it on the tan,
For round the show
The _troupe_ must to
In glittering caravan;
In long and grand procession
Parading, one and all
Belonging to the Circus
At the Agricultural Hall.

Gay are Reform Processions,
The Lord Mayor’s Show is gay,
But the Circus-ride
All else beside
Surpasses in that way,
Where piglings, born in litters,
Did late attention crave,
And implements of husbandry
The reaping hook to save;
Where (shows of mules and hosses
Are likewise in its line),
We’ve had of late
A gathering great
Of fatted sheep and kine.
But nobler now the show is,
And brighter the array――
A pageant, gay and glorious,
A quite unique display
Of horsemanship
That none may whip
Is opened there this day.

Tall are the iron siphons
That rise in Pentonville,
And lofty is the viaduct
You see at Holborn Hill,
Thwaites, at the Thames Embankment,
Has worked for many a year,
Beneath our highways Fowler drove
An Underground career.

But now no water-workmen
Are found at Pentonville,
No navvies poise the girders huge
For spanning Holborn Hill,
Unheeded on th’ Embankment
Rings out the cry of “Beer!”
Unwatched the populace may urge
Their Underground career!

The harvests at Refreshment bars
Just now young men may reap;
Just now the banks of Lombard
The unfledged clerks may keep;
And in the vats of Romford
Just now the brewing’s done
By ’prentice hands, for all the world
Has gone to Islington.

Ho! bandsmen, toot your bugle!
Ho! grooms, there, clear the course,
For Mademoiselle
Will cut a swell
Upon her high-trained horse,
And here is Jones of Putney,
Who rides the bare-backed steed;
And here is Brown of Camberwell,
Who clears six hoops at speed;
And here is Peckham’s Perkins,
The foremost in the land,
With tinsel fillet, smiling lip,
And cracking whip, and loud Ya-hip,
Who drives eighteen-in-hand.
Make way for the procession――
Make way there, great and small――
It comes,――the _troupe_ of Sanger,
Of the Agricultural Hall!

_Fun._

――――

THE BATTLE OF LAKE MORT.

_A Lay sung at a Feast of Bacchus, about the Kalends of
Aprilis, in the year of grace_ MDCCCLXX.

_With Latin notes by Canis._

I.

Ho, undergrads, be merry!
Ho, all men, shout away!
The Crew will ride, in all their pride
Along the streets to day.
To-day the doors and windows
Are hung with “colours” all,
From hand-bills in the street way,
To posters on the wall.
Each man is clothed in “blazer,”
With light blue each is crowned;
And each preserves a well made oar
No more to rowlock bound.
While flows our turbid river,
While stands our Market hill,
The Kalends of Aprilis
Shall have such honour still.
Gay are the Ides of Maia:
December’s Nones are gay:
But the Kalends which April sends,
Shall be our proudest day.

II.

Unto the Great Sea Ruler,
With Bacchus, is this feast.
Swift, swift, the Great Sea Ruler
Ran till the race had ceased,
He came from depths Atlantic,
Where tossing waves abound,
With countless laughter rippling,
And music in their sound,
He came to see his well-loved,
Our Thames, where glory rings,
He came to lordly London,
The city of our kings[109];
To where by far-famed Lake Mort,
Now Mortlake long time hight――
All in the Thames’ fair waters,
Was fought the glorious fight.

III.

Now on the place of battle
Are boats and barges seen,
And rows of tugs, and lines of ships,
And boatmen far from clean;
The screws of the big steamers
Crush the small waves beneath,
And others with their paddles
Make all the waters seethe;
The fisher baits his angle,
The mudlark goes his round,
Little they think on those strong limbs
That battled near that ground;
Little they think how sternly
That day the coxwains cried,
How boat and boatmen felt the rush,
Of that dark eddying tide;
How some men came with rumours
Which others called a hoax;
How some laid bets on captains,
And others named the strokes;
How thick the crowd was gathered
Upon the bridges height;
How all along the towing path
Swayed the wild stream of flight;
And how the far-famed Lake Mort
Bubbled with unclean foam,
What time the ancient Isis
Against the Cam did come.

X.

Up rose the golden morning
Over the Pauline[110] height.
The Kalends of Aprilis,
Marked evermore with white.
Not without secret trouble
Our bravest saw the foes,
For held by sixteen manly hands
The eight good oars arose.
From each picked beating college
That boasts the Oxford name
Fore doomed to be defeated
That gallant army came.

* * * * *

And in the Cantab army
Were men of wondrous might,
Who came from Johnian portals,
And girt them for the fight,
From Trinity came others,
As part of that array;
From Sidney and from Jesus――
Athletic men were they.

XV.

Now to each boat the starter
Gave signal for the charge;
And in each boat the oarsmen
Rowed on past tub and barge;
And in each boat the oarsman
Struck the water with his oar;
And near each boat the steamers
Steamed on with mighty roar,
And under that great turmoil
The waves with mud were dark,
And like the London fog at morn
The steam hung o’er each bark.
And louder still and louder
Rose from the crowded bank
The cheering and the war cries,[111]
With hopes that rose and sank.
And onward rowed the rivals
And neither seemed to wane,
They scudded o’er the waters
Like whirlwinds o’er the plain.

XVII.

The Cantabs took the lead at once;
At the Creek they were away.
“Now hie ye on!” the coxswains cried,
“And see ye win the day.”
But when they reached the Crab Tree
’Twixt the two light was seen;
And halfway to the Soapworks,
There was a length between.
But now the Oxford strokesman
Laboured with labour strong,
And spurted up amidst the cheers
Of the delighted throng.
And closer still and closer
Did Darbishire draw near,
Till by the Soapworks Cambridge men
Began to feel some fear.
But Goldie now worked harder,
And passed the Ship a-head
When Darbishire put on a spurt,
But his men were nearly dead.
“Cam to the charge!” cried Gordon,
The foe begins to yield;
For now the Great Sea Ruler
Hath gained for us the field.
And passing under Barnes Bridge
Cam was a length away,
And rowing on to Lake Mort
Most bravely won the day.

XX.

The god who lives for ever
Hath fought for Cam to-day
He is the Great Sea Ruler,
To whom the oarsmen pray,
Back comes the Chief in triumph
Who in the hour of fight
Was helped by the Great Ruler,
Who gave him what was right.
Safe comes the ship to haven
Through billows and through gales
If once the great Sea Ruler
Sits perched upon the sails.
Here in the Union building,
Hoist we the telegram,
Which says the Great Sea Ruler
Hath fought so well for Cam.
And when the months returning
Bring back this day of fight――
The proud day of the boat-race
Marked evermore with white――
Unto the Union building
Let Undergrads all throng,
And pass into the Union
To read the telegram,
Which says “The Great Sea Ruler,
Hath fought so well for Cam!”

These extracts are from “_The Battle of Lake Mort_,” a long parody by the author of _The Dauntless Three_ (already referred to on page 172). Cambridge, J. Hall and Son. 1875. Price 6_d._

――――:o:――――

_Punch_, September 6, 1884, contained an imitation entitled “The Dioscuri in Egypt.” It referred to the mission to Egypt undertaken by Lords Wolseley and Northbrook, which failed so dismally. The following extracts are from, a parody, which also appeared in _Punch_, February 11, 1888, describing the opening of Parliament.

IN THE ARENA.
_The “Parade” before the Conflict._

Ho! trumpets blare forth bravely, ho, banners proudly flout!
Cool critics loll expectant, spectators swarm and shout!
For lo! short truce is over, and lately sundered foes,
Once more in the arena will counter, clash, and close.
The echoes of the battle when last they trod the sand,
The tramp of eager horsemen, the clang of biting brand,
Seem scarcely to have left us, and now, before the Spring
Has come with burst of blossom, has filled with flush of wing,
Ere Valentine the Vernal hath trod the ancient tracks,
His burthens laid on lovers, and eke on postmen’s backs,
Ere snow hath left the branches, ere green hath lit the boughs,
We may look out for ructions, and we must list to rows.
Yet in this huge arena heroic figures shine;
Such sure is thine, Gladstonius; Cæcilius, such is thine!
Achilles and great Hector might well have flushed with joy
To counter foes so worthy afar by windy Troy.
Cæcilius on his war-horse full proudly pranceth round――
He doth not show like shrinking, nor look like giving ground;
And at his back all brawny, and stolid, and serene
(An armour-bearer stouter hath been right seldom seen),
Comes low-lipped Hartingtonius, ready with shield, or crest,
Or sword, or spear, or javelin, as may be in request.
These eyeing stern and steady, as fighters foemen eye,
Comes wintry-lock’d Gladstonius, game still the lists to try
Against whatever comer, erect, and gaunt of limb,
With glance exceeding fiery, and jaw exceeding grim;
_His_ armour-bearer, also, is ready at his heel,
With breadth of bossy buckler, and length of shining steel;
Parnellius the Placid, with pallid cheek and cold,
With calm eye ever watchful, and chill front ever bold.
When these anon encounter in full and fiery tilt,
Be sure that steel shall splinter, and ruddy blood be spilt.
“Who――who in the aforetime had ever thought to see
These heroes _so_ attended, museth the herald, _P_,
And other chiefs of valour though lower in their grade,
Array in the arena, and prance in the parade.
Comes Smithius the smug-faced, him of the settled smirk,
Balfourius “the brave,” too, one never known to shirk
Sword-thrust, or spare his foeman though prostrate and disarmed,
Goschenius, erst henchman of Gladstonius, till charmed
From him the white-lock’d Wonder, but now his fiercest foe,
Save Chamberlanius, better beknown as Brummijo,
Who beards his ancient Chieftain with even more of ire,
And backs his ancient foeman with yet more zealous fire.
Not so the stout Harcourtius, him of the triple chin,
He backs the “Grand Old Manlius,” as one who’s bound to win,
Old Manlius Gladstonius, when others shy or sulk,
And loads the ancient war-horse with big complacent bulk.
And others follow after him of the snowy crest,
Morleius the mordant, bravest amongst the best,
Gallant Spencerius Rufus, the loyallest of hearts,
And――but the clarion brayeth, the martial pageant starts.

HENRY OF NAVARRE.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,
Through thy corn fields green, and sunny vines, oh, pleasant land
of France!
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,
For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy,
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.

T. B. MACAULAY.

THE WAR OF THE NORMAS.

Now glory to LA DIVA who still reigns the Queen of Song,
And glory, too, to Costa, may he wield the bâton long.
Now let the distant sound of song, and echo of the band,
Be heard through Covent Garden, and Long Acre, and the Strand.
And thou, too, _Morning Chronicle_, bold partisan of Beale,
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our weal.
For ill-advised was Jenny, when she thought to reach the throne
Of that unrivalled songstress who had made the part her own.

Hurrah! hurrah! the first night proved she had essayed too much;
Hurrah! hurrah for Grisi, and the _Norma_ none can touch!

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when a week before the day,
We saw proud Lumley posting up his bills in long array;
There stood the name of grand Lablache, of mighty voice and limb;
And there too, was Fraschini, but we did not care for him.
And we cried unto our _Norma_, that she might be underlined,
To combat for her own great name, and leave the Lind behind.

* * * * *

Ho! partisans of Lumley, don habiliments of woe!
Weep, rend your hair, to hear _the truth_: your _Norma_ was “_no go_.”
Ho! Verdi, bring for charity thy opera to their aid,
That Jenny Lind may sing and no comparison be made.
Ho! bold Bond-street librarians find the public still is true
Unto their long-tried favourite, to whom all praise be due.
For Grisi still hath proved herself the best of all the bunch,
Hath mocked the critic of the _Post_, and box-bought praise of _Punch_.

Then glory to LA DIVA who yet reigns the Queen of Song,
And glory, too, to Costa――may he wield the baton long!

From _The Man in the Moon_. Edited by Albert Smith
and Angus B. Reach. Vol. II.

Jenny Lind made her first appearance at Her Majesty’s Theatre, London, in May, 1847 (when it was under the management of Mr. Lumley), with great success. She was much admired in every part she undertook, but in _Norma_ she had to stand comparison with Madame Grisi, who had long been identified with it, and opinions widely differed, as to the superiority of these famous singers in this, now almost forgotten, opera.

――――

THE LORD MAYOR’S SHOW.

Now, ye blue-blooded dustmen, leave your cart’s unsav’ry tail,
And you, ye “supes” of noble birth, come don your coats of mail;
For Harcourt and his legions and Firth, that recreant knight,
Have dared the valiant Griffin and the Turtle to the fight!
Now Fowler wipes his reeking brow, while smiles relax his face,
For have they not already flinched before his mighty mace?
And noble Nottage waves his lens, and seeks the thickest strife,
And woe to those who stand to him――he’ll “take ’em from the life”!

――――

But why this shadow o’er the board, this phantom at the feast?
The day is won, the foe has fled, his fierce assaults have ceased.
Yet still the hollow laugh is forced, as though each heard the cry:
“Let’s eat and drink and merry be――to-morrow we must die!”
In vain the jewelled cup is passed, the speech and song go round;
Each song seems but a requiem, each speech a ghostly sound,
While o’er the Master’s anxious face a cloud hangs like a pall;
Alas! Belshazzar-Nottage sees――“the writing on the wall!”

J. T. WRIGHT.

_The Weekly Dispatch._ November 9, 1884.

――――

IRELAND, 1890.